Welcome to the Institute, Hank
by Artemis's Liege
Summary: It's the first day on the job for Hank McCoy as "school doctor" of the Xavier Institute. And that's not exactly the most relaxing occupation out there . . .
1. Day One

Disclaimer: X-Men belong to Marvel, and no profit is being made from this page.

Rating: **T**, for mentions of injuries.

Universe: Uses the setting of the movies but does not follow the events.

* * *

Honestly, Hank wasn't sure what to expect of his first day as the 'school doctor' at the Xavier Institute. He knew the building well enough, having visited the school several times a year to call on his friends and fellow mutants. But he had never actually seen the school from the viewpoint of a first aid caregiver.

But judging by Jean's gratitude that he had taken over the position and the numerous warnings Hank had received from Scott, it was amazing that almost a full half hour passed after classes had begun for the day before the first afflicted student staggered through the door of the medical center.

He was just reviewing several of the student medical profiles Jean had presented to him when the steel door was pulled open, and two students walked inside.

Both appeared to be in their mid-teens. The first was an Asian–American girl of medium height, her shiny, black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, with bright fuchsia sunglasses perched atop her head. There might have been a question of whether her lightweight, canary yellow jacket was supposed to be bomber or motorcycle, but it managed to retain similarities to both designs without fully committing itself to either style.

Possibly jackets were a trend at the Xavier Institute, because the second individual had one as well, although his was black leather. He was a tall blonde with a sarcastic spark in his eyes, and he wore a pained grimace in addition to the jacket, holding one hand against his temple.

"Maybe I be of assistance?" Hank rose from his desk and strode over to the students.

"Hey," the girl said, waving one hand at him enthusiastically. "You must be Dr. McCoy. Ms. Munroe mentioned you when she said I should take Saint-John to see you." She pronounced the name _Sin-jin_ as she gestured to her companion. "This is Saint-John Allerdyce, and I'm Jubilee."

Hank smiled at the pair. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintances, although I regret that it's under these unlucky circumstances. What seems to be the problem, Saint- John?"

"Someone opened the door that I was about to open and it hit my skull," Saint- John growled, scowling.

Ouch. Hank winced in sympathy. No wonder the teen was so sullen; that had to hurt.

"I'll be merely a moment, please take a seat," Hank gestured to several chairs lined against the wall, before walking to his office in the back and retrieving an ice pack from the freezer of the refrigerator that Jean had installed, both portions of which she had kept filled to the brim with cold compresses and other medical supplies that needed to be kept cool. Now, Hank could understand why. He reentered the main area and quickly obtained Saint-John's medical file from the filing cabinet, and then returned to the pair of students.

Jubilee had settled down on a chair and was leafing through a magazine, cracking her gum, while Saint-John had simply closed his eyes and titled his head back in what Hank recognized as a desperate but futile attempt to snatch a few seconds worth of sleep. At the sound of Hank's approaching footsteps, his eyes opened and he sat up.

"Here you are," Hank handed Saint-John the ice pack. "Would you object if I made several inquiries in order to ascertain that you do not suffer from a concussion?"

"Hey, it's a free country," Saint-John replied with a shrug. He raised a blonde eyebrow as he watch Dr. McCoy for his reaction.

Hank studied him for a moment, wondering if his patient was the resident troublemaker at the Xavier Institute, before proceeding with his questioning. "Are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?"

"None," Saint-John informed him in a bored tone.

"Is your vision blurred or unfocused?" Hank inquired.

"No," Saint-John responded tonelessly.

"Have you had trouble with balancing or coordination on the way here?"

"_Nada_."

"Give it up, Dr. McCoy," Jubilee told him, not taking her eyes off the magazine page. "Saint-John is too hard-headed to be concussed, isn't that right, Sin?"

"Hey, thanks, Jubilee," Saint-John rolled his eyes.

"All right," Hank decided. "You may return to class, Saint-John, but if you feel lightheaded or your head hurts, it is imperative to your health that you receive immediate medical treatment. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, sure." Saint-John stood. "C'mon, Jubilee. I hate to drag you away from your magazine, but we need to get back to class."

"You're just scared of Ms. Munroe," Jubilee shot back, but she closed her magazine and rose to join her friend.

"She's a scary a person, sometimes," Saint-John admitted. "And Dr. McCoy," he added on his way out the door, "Thank you."

Hank smiled as Jubilee waved to him, almost crashing into the wall as she walked backwards. "You're welcome."

As Hank sat down at his desk to record the visit in Saint-John's medical file, it occurred to him that neither student had reacted to his beast-like appearance; rather, they hadn't even seemed to notice it. Perhaps it was because they were mutants themselves, but he would've expected some sort of surprise on their part.

Putting aside his thoughtful musings, Hank clicked his pen and the ink had almost made contact with the paper when the door crashed open.

"I need some help here!" The panicked shout resounded through the medical center, and Hank immediately stood, pushing back his chair and hurrying to the teenager who had barged in.

A lanky youth in his mid-teens was doing his best to support a fellow adolescent, who had appeared to be completely limp. Quickly, Hank took the unconscious youth's weight (which still wouldn't have been very much even if Hank didn't posses superior strength), and easily lowered him onto one of the beds, placed the pillow underneath his ankles and turned his head to the side.

"What's the problem?" Hank asked calmly as he checked the teen's wrist for a pulse, which he found much too rapid. The motionless teenager was breathing steadily; his enhanced hearing told him that much. Relieved that this wasn't more serious, Hank fluidly began unwrapping the blood pressure cuff.

"Well, Ms. Munroe was upset that we were talking during class, so she asked us to stay after so she could yell at us, so we were walking down to Mr. Summers's classroom, but then J.P. just randomly went catatonic in the hallway- seriously, he didn't even sway, just collapsed on the floor. I don't even know why."

"J.P.?" Hank questioned as he removed the blood pressure cuff from Jean-Paul's bicep.

"Oh," the teen said, seeming to realize that he had not given either of their names. "That's Jean-Paul Martin, but we call him 'J.P.' for short. I'm Bobby Drake." He extended his hand for Hank to shake.

"Hank McCoy," Hank said with a smile.

Bobby looked at Jean-Paul worriedly. "So is he going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine," said a cold voice.

Jean-Paul sat up on the bed, and swung his legs over the edge onto the floor.

"Whoa!" Bobby shouted in surprise.

Having expected Jean-Paul to regain consciousness shortly, Hank was unsurprised, but he used the several seconds in which Bobby exclaimed over Jean-Paul, who did his best to elbow the other teen away, to study the latter.

Jean-Paul Martin also appeared to be in his mid-teens, but his outward demeanor was decidedly different from his compatriot's. A scowl was etched on his face, which was, to be brief, beautiful. His precisely symmetrical features were set upon utterly flawless, pale skin, with arched, upswept eyebrows and high, sculpted cheekbones. Thick eyelashes gave his eyes a smoky appearance, which were already remarkable due to their unusual coloring: a deep blue with hints of gray, reminiscent of an ocean covered with a fine, silver mist. And although the teen wore casual clothes, it was impossible to hide that his outfit was constructed from a variety of extremely expensive and high-end brands.

But as Hank scrutinized the teen, he was unable to ignore an eerie feeling that ebbed into his mind. While Jean-Paul undoubtedly was beautiful, his outer appearance was uncannily faultless. It was almost . . . creepy that he appeared so effortlessly perfect.

"That was kinda of scary, J.P.," Bobby was saying. "Maybe you should start eating and sleeping."

Hank grimly noted the statement and watched Jean-Paul carefully.

Standing, Jean-Paul ignored his statement and cast an impassive glance around the medical center. "I'll be going now."

"Sit down," Hank ordered him.

The teen cast him a look that was mostly disbelief and a fraction startled. "I beg your pardon," he said, in a tone that was the opposite of begging.

"Bobby," Hank said.

Bobby glanced at him questioningly.

"Go back to class," Hank told him.

Bobby looked to Jean-Paul and shrugged helplessly, before he walked slowly to the door, dragging his feet.

When the door finally shut behind Bobby, Hank walked back into in office, steadily ignoring Jean-Paul's verbal attempts to get his attention, and returned with his medical file and a glass of fruit juice, which he handed to the teen, who turn accepted the glass but stared at it distastefully.

"You should sit down," Hank advised him, but Jean-Paul remained standing.

"Whatever," Jean-Paul replied, not moving. "When can I leave?"

Flipping open the file, Hank paged through the medical notations. "This seems to be habit for you," he observed neutrally. "This would be the third time you've collapsed due to hypoglycemia. Tell me, in your opinion, Mr. Martin, could lack of rest or proper nourishment play a role in these incidents?"

An expression of thorough annoyance transcended upon Jean-Paul's face, and keeping his eyes directly on Hank's, he placed the glass on the table. "Don't patronize me, Dr. McCoy. I know what I'm doing."

Hank's eyebrows rose slightly. "Excuse me?"

For a split second, uncertainty flickered across Jean-Paul's features, but it vanished, replaced by cold disdain. "Although I appreciate your assistance greatly," the teen said in a tone that was far from appreciative, "I honesty must state that in my opinion, my condition does not warrant medical treatment of any sort."

Hank frowned, puzzled by both Jean-Paul's words and his sudden, inexplicable formal tone. "You deprive yourself of proper nourishment, and then you say that you don't think that you need any help. Good lord, would you listen to yourself?"

"I'm done listening at the moment. Thank you for your time Dr. McCoy," Jean-Paul said icily. With that, the youth turned and strode from the medical center.

Hank let him go, deciding that it wasn't worth the trouble of chasing him down, but mentally made a note to mention the recalcitrant student to Jean. He had just opened Jean-Paul's file to thoroughly peruse the papers when the door crashed open again.

Suppressing the urge to sigh and internally weighing the pros and cons of installing a less noisy door, Hank braced himself to deal with another crisis as a pair of teenage girls entered the room. "Yes?"

"It's my arm," one of the girls declared immediately. "It's bleeding."

"Please sit down." At this point, Hank gesticulated to the chairs with practiced ease.

The injured girl gracefully settled in a chair, tossing her curtain of sleek, black hair over her shoulder as she did so. She removed the bloodied paper towel she had been using to cover her wound and extended her arm.

Within seconds, Hank determined that the abrasion was only minor. "Don't worry," he told the girl, "the cut is wide, so it may seem as if there's an abnormally excessive amount of blood, but in actuality, it's quite shallow. Let me procure a bandage for you; I'll be just a moment."

"That's fine," the girl replied in her regal, expectant tone.

When he returned with the bandage and alcohol swabs, he noticed the girl's companion for the first time. She was a fellow teenager, but unlike her injured friend, who was dressed as if she had just glided off the page of a fashion magazine, this one's clothes were simple with muted colors: form-fitting black jeans, a white shirt with drawstring sleeves that went to her elbows, and a black V-neck vest.

However, both her outfit and her pose, leaning slightly with both motorcycle boot clad-feet low but one slightly against the wall, arms folded loosely across her chest, emphasized her statuesque figure, slender, but with well-sculpted muscles. Hank observed bemusedly that with her outfit and pose, it was almost as if the girl was a fashion mannequin that was propped up in a store window.

Oddly enough, this girl wore a fedora low over her face, casting a shadow over her eyes, but then again, her head was tilted at downwards angle anyway, so perhaps this wasn't deliberate.

Hank realigned his focus on the injured girl, who was looking at him curiously. "So, are you going to be our resident doctor, now?"

With a smile, Hank answered, "Yes. I have accepted the position of school nurse at the Institute."

There was momentary flash of satisfaction in the girl's eyes, and she responded with a smile of her own, though there was something faintly vulpine in hers. "That's marvelous news. It's good to get some new blood around here every now and again." She extended her uninjured arm as Hank finished applying the bandage. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Amara Aquilla of Nova Roma."

"Henry McCoy," Hank said, shaking her hand. His gaze drifted over to the other girl who hadn't moved a muscle and was still leaning against the wall. "And who-"

"Oh." Amara waved a manicured dark hand in her direction. "This is Rogue."

Hank barely had time to raise an eyebrow at the odd moniker before Amara continued.

"But yes, it's a relief that you've taken over the position," she went on. "I don't wish to speak ill of Dr. Grey, but I found her skills somewhat . . . lacking. I don't want to say that she's _incompetent_, per se," she deliberated, "but if the shoe fits . . ." Amara paused as smirk twisted across her lips, "why not wear it?"

A low chuckle emitted from Rogue's throat, and as Hank watched, she straightened from her position, sauntered from behind the door over to the opposite wall, and resumed her pose there. Hank did not have time to question her strange actions because once again, the door slammed open, crashing against the wall where Rogue had been leaning just a few seconds ago.

A girl strutted through the doorway; her blonde hair was long and luxurious, her face pretty, and her outfit of a short skirt and a peasant blouse was stylish and probably expensive. Following her was a second blonde girl who looked a few years older, perhaps eighteen, who was covering one of her hands with the other.

"Hello," said the first blonde girl. "I was supposed to take _her_-" she made a careless gesture at the second girl, "to Dr. McCoy." Her tone was somewhat arrogant. "That's you, I assume?"

Amara jumped in before Hank had the chance to respond. "Yes. Regan, for now, at least, he'll be replacing Dr. Grey."

The two girls exchanged smug smirks, and turned to Rogue, whose painted lips were also pulled upward in a very faint smile.

"We'll be going now," Regan informed him, and sure enough, she and Amara proceeded out of the medical. "Come on, Rogue," Regan said as she breezed by the girl still leaning against the wall.

The door slammed shut behind the two girls, and for several seconds, Rogue remained where she was. Then she straightened and turned in the direction of Hank and the other girl.

"Hey Paige," she said in a low, throaty voice.

"Hey Anna Marie," responded the other, girl, apparently Paige.

With that, Rogue walked toward the door, her pace not hurried but not delayed, and left the room.

The door shut after her, the clap of metal against metal echoing in the sudden silence.

"Anna Marie?" Hank queried, his gaze fixated upon the door.

"Her real name," Paige explained. "On her first day here, Jubilee declared that the name "Anna Marie" didn't suit her, so Jubilee promptly christened her "Rogue" instead. Almost everyone calls her by her nickname, even the teachers, but I'm not very close to her so I just use her real name."

"Oh," Hank said, at a loss for words for the first time in a long time.

An awkward silence followed.

"So," Paige said, "pretty crazy place, huh?"

"That's for certain," Hank said,

"It takes awhile to get used to it," Paige tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and straightened her turquoise headband that matched her shirt. "Especially those three. Amara and Regan fill the resident _Mean Girls_ roles, and Anna Marie hangs out with them because. . . well, um, she's never told me why. She doesn't really talk."

"So I've noticed," Hank said, glancing at Paige. He started. "I apologize. You're here due to injury, and yet here I am ignoring you."

"It's not bad," Paige said. "I accidentally slammed my fingers in the door of the classroom. Regan had to come with me just because of safety precautions."

Hank led her over the freezer. "Here you are," Hank handed her an icepack.

"Thanks," Paige accepted the icepack with a smile. "I'm Paige Guthrie."

"Henry McCoy," Hank replied. "As you heard Amara saying, I'll be taking over the school nurse position."

Paige let out an amused breath. "'School nurse'? School zookeeper is more like it as this place."

"Isn't that the truth," commented Scott, strolling into the medical center.

"Wow, Mr. Summers," Paige said, impressed. "I didn't even hear you come in."

"Yeah," Scott replied, "the door is surprisingly quiet if you don't slam it against the wall, but I noticed when Jean was school nurse and I came to visit her that all the kids seemed to enjoy smashing into it as hard as possible."

"They still do," Hank remarked dryly.

The bell rang throughout the hallways, and Paige started.

"Oh, geez, if I turn in my essay late, Ms. Frost will kill me! I have to go!" She sprinted to the door. "Thanks, Dr. McCoy! 'Bye, Mr. Summers!" She called over her shoulder.

Hank chuckled as the door swung shut behind her. "Oh, to be young again."

"Funny," Scott said, smiling benignly. "I wouldn't think that you'd say something like that after treating God-only-knows-how-many kids with injuries today."

"Well I can say that the students I've met so far are undoubtably . . . scintillating," Hank said carefully.

Scott's lips pulled into a smirk. "Who did you have the pleasure of meeting?"

"In addition to Paige, I met Jean-Paul Martin, Bobby Drake, Amara Aquilla, a friend of hers, who, if memory serves, is named Regan, Jubilee, Saint-John Allerdyce, and Anna Marie, A.K.A. Rogue."

Scott laughed. "Lucky you. I can barely believe that you got stuck with _all_ of them on the same morning."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "Are those particularly irksome charges of yours?"

"I'm often impatient with Jubilee and Bobby, but they do have redeeming qualities," Scott admitted. "The rest of them . . . not so much. I just came down to check and make sure that Regan actually took Paige here. She's not the most trustworthy student we have. And good Lord, it's as if Jean-Paul Martin deliberately tries to annoy me."

"Does he really?" Hank asked, wondering about the odd teen who had been dragged unconscious to the medical center earlier that morning.

"It's not only just me, it's every teacher here, so he probably has authority issues, or something," Scott said dismissively. "But I guess it comes naturally, because I don't think he'd make the effort; he would actually have to think of someone besides himself. It's not even as if he's here that much. His parents have him go home because of a 'family emergency' every few weeks."

"You don't believe that's the legitimate reason?" Hank asked.

"If there's that many 'family emergencies' taking place, then it's futile to even try to reconstruct it," Scott replied. "We've attempted to contact his parents, but we always get a secretary or an aide who takes a message and our calls are never returned." He frowned suddenly. "Why all the questions? Did he give you trouble?"

"In a manner of speaking-" Hank began, but was interrupted when the door crashed open once again.

"Dr. McCoy!" A voice shouted.

Hank sighed, wondering what the problem could be this time. "Again?"

"I'll talk to Jean," Scott offered."Maybe you two could alternate days as school nurse so that your sanity remains intact."

"That would be extremely altruistic of you," Hank replied dryly, returning to the main area of the medical center, already preparing for the next medical malady.

* * *

A/N: Amara Aquilla, Paige Guthrie, Regan Wyngarde and Jean-Paul Martin (Beaubier) are all mutants from the comics. Also, St. John is now Australian once again.

I apologize if I misconstrued any medical information. I did my best, but hey, everybody makes mistakes.

I found Hank and Scott both very difficult to write, and then I had to characterize both of them in the same scene. O_O I like both of their characters, but I think they're really hard to capture. Especially Scott, because I want to write him as an actual person, not just a stick in the mud. Although, he does not get along with Jean-Paul. I think I'll write more about that later . . .

Anyway, thoughts, questions or concrit? Please let me know.


	2. Day Two

Disclaimer: X-Men and all of its characters belong to Marvel. No money was/is/will be produced from this page.

A/N: This story was originally just going to be a one-shot, but now I got a few reviews suggesting that I continue, and I thought, "Hey, why not?" So here I am. I'm going to have three chapters total.

The views and opinions expressed in the story content do not correlate with the views and opinions of Artemis's Liege.

Continuity: Uses the settings from the original X-Men trilogy, but none of the events have taken place.

* * *

On his second day as the school doctor of the Xavier Institute, Hank began to feel as although he was beginning to adjust to his job somewhat.

He quickly learned that he was much more than a medical physician at the school. Although the position he had signed on for was specifically a first-aid caregiver, he found himself refereeing disagreements between the students, reprimanding those who were careless with their mutant abilities, and allaying fears that the time spent in the medical center would cause them to fall irrevocably behind the rest of the class in their studies.

From a physician's point of view, the Xavier Institute was a fascinating place. There was always another malady to treat, whether it be a minor abrasion or setting broken bones.

Despite being completely prepared to administer first-aid to these injuries, Hank admittedly was caught off-guard on several occasions by the _manner _of which the injuries were attained. For instance, both Xi'an and Remy were nineteen, but that hadn't stopped them from falling victim to the practical joke of several younger students when they had taken the fifth-grade out on an ill-advised nature walk, and found themselves toppling into the shallow area of the stream that ran through the woods beyond the mansion. Unfortunately, Xi'an wound up slicing her leg on a sharp stone and subsequently required stitches, while Remy's attempts to break his fall resulted in three fractured ribs, although, luckily, he would be good as new in a few days thanks to his healing factor.

Hank was just disinfecting the area where he had treated the two of them when the metal door opened. Immediately, he knew that it wasn't a student- if it had been, the door undoubtably would've smashed against the wall, carelessly shoved aside by a student in the process of working themselves into a panicked mental state over whatever their injury might've been.

The aroma of tea leaves and flowers drifted through the air, and Hank turned to meet Ororo Munroe's warm, dark gaze. She stood a few paces away from him, holding a tea tray decorated with delicate china.

"I though you could use a break," she said with a smile, indicating the silver tray she was carrying, upon which a stately teapot and several matching teacups rested. "After all, we haven't had time to visit."

"That would be wonderful," Hank replied, returning her smile. "Let me just finish cleaning up, and I would be delighted to partake."

Within a few moments, he had joined Ororo, and the two sat and sipped their tea, remaining in the front area of the medical center in preparation for an emergency.

At the first taste of his tea, Hank recognized the blend. "This is Darjeeling." He looked at Ororo. "You remembered."

"That it was your favorite?" Ororo asked fondly. "Of course. I remember the mornings when we would wake up early, just to watch the sunrise together, and you would make tea . . . back then, I was still a heathen using tea bags. And then you educated me in the art of making loose tea."

"I'm always happy to those misguided in the importance of fine tea onto the correct path again, Ororo," Hank told her, and the two shared a chuckle at his mock-serious tone.

"So how did it go yesterday?" Ororo asked. "Was it one of the better first days or one of the worse?"

"It was a very interesting experience," Hank responded neutrally.

Ororo raised an eyebrow. "Taking the diplomatic approach, are we? Scott told me that you had a few of the troublemakers come through here."

Before Hank could reply, the door to the medical center opened, and a girl in her mid-teens, dressed entirely in black, walked inside. Although it took a minute for Hank to remember, he recognized her as the girl Amara had referred to as "Rogue." The fedora she had worn the previous day now rested in her hand, rendering visual identification difficult without her discernible fashion statement. She turned to look at them with a piercing, green gaze, but Hank's focus was the blood dripping down her forearms.

"Oh my stars and garters," Hank said. The girl's eyes were vacant of any sort of awareness, leaving her stare disturbingly empty and fixed. He couldn't shake a chill as he met her completely lifeless gaze; it reminded him of a documentary concerning lobotomy patients he had once viewed for a college course.

"Henry. Ororo." She smiled at them as they watched her warily, and the expression only caused her glassy stare to appear more disconcerting. "I certainly hope that I didn't interrupt a moment." She fixed them both with her impassive gaze. "It's me, Emma. This girl collapsed outside while walking down the staircase. She was in need of medical attention, so just decided to send her over to you, Henry."

Hank understood. The girl was unconscious, therefore Emma Frost had utilized her telepathic abilities and psionically taken control of the girl's body to assure that she received the necessary medical attention. Now, Emma was speaking through the girl's body, similar to the numerous movies in which a demon possessed a host and acted through them. He fluidly rose from his seat. "Is she seriously injured?"

"No," Emma replied, smiling at him with the girl's face. "She was very lucky. There are no broken bones, only these scratches." She gestured towards the girl's arms. "Nothing else. She's hardly in dire straits."

"Why did she collapse?" Hank inquired. Remembering crossing paths with Jean-Paul, he voiced his presumption. "Hypoglycemia?"

Arching an eyebrow, Emma shook her head slightly. "As much as I hate to disappoint you, it's not that dramatic. Anna Marie merely didn't sleep well last night, was so exhausted that she became overwhelmed by dizziness when she tried to climb the staircase."

"I see." Hank turned to Ororo. "I sincerely apologize, Ororo, but -"

"I understand." An unfathomable expression had settled upon Ororo's beautiful features and she was already standing. "Perhaps we could do this another time?"

"I unmitigatedly endorse that proposal." Hank smiled at his friend. She smiled back at him, but Hank couldn't help but noticed that her smile seemed somewhat off.

"I'll see you later," Ororo murmured, touching his arm briefly.

"Yes, you do that." Emma sent a smile dripping with saccharine sweetness in Ororo's direction. "And while you're at it, be a dear and gather up the china, would you?" With a careless wave of her hand, she gesticulated to the tea tray and its supplements.

A muscled in Ororo's jaw twitched, and she aimed a disdainful glance Emma's way before moving to collect the china. Her back ramrod straight, Ororo briskly stalked out the door.

"Henry, darling," Emma said silkily, recapturing Hank's attention, "this girl needs medical attention, even if her injuries aren't drastic."

"Certainly," Hank replied quickly, realizing that he had been unintentionally neglecting his patient. "Would you-"

A smile, courtesy of Emma, curled onto Anna Marie's lips when she languidly stretched out Anna Marie's arms, one at a time, for him to examine. Ordinarily, a smile would look pretty and charming on a face as elegant as Anna Marie's, but the knowledge that someone else was controlling the girl's every action struck Hank as downright uncanny and instilled a feeling of deep unease within him.

"Please sit down, Emma, I'll be just a moment."

When Hank returned with the necessary medical supplies and began cleaning the wide, but shallow lacerations, Emma was uncharacteristically silent, judging from his impressions of her from his visits and what he had been told by his colleagues. Hank wasn't sure to be grateful or not; uncomfortable as the situation was, Emma struck him as the type of woman who could make his life at the Institute exceedingly complicated. By the time he finished wrapping adhesive tape over gauze around the girl's forearms, though, she seemed to be her normal sensual self once more.

"Well, now, if that's taken care of, where should I put _this_?" She gestured sweepingly to Anna Marie's body using the girl's arm.

"Just take her into the other room so she can lie down," Hank told her, motioning to the doorway that led to a room lined with meticulously arranged hospital beds. Under these circumstances, it probably would've been more appropriate to have the girl lie down in one of the several back rooms, but in this case, Hank didn't want Anna Marie to wake up alone in a tightly enclosed area on a paper-covered leg couch.

Emma in Anna Marie's body rose from her seat with a feline grace, and suddenly, Hank found the girl pressed against him.

"Thank you _so much_," Emma purred, gently caressing his cheek. "For all of your . . ." she deliberated for a few seconds, "_help_." Abruptly, she maneuvered past him into the other room, with a blasé, "_Ciao_, Henry. I have to be going, so I'll leave this girl with you."

For several moments, Hank simply stood where he was in discomposure. Yesterday there had been the eerie perfection of Jean-Paul Martin, just now there was the unnatural sight of Emma speaking and moving through Anna Marie.

Hank couldn't imagine what the following day would deliver to him, but he wondered what sort of unconventional encounter he would experience tomorrow. Normally, Hank thought of himself as a self-possessed individual, but he doubted he would have the patience to manage the next peculiar and wounded student that crashed through the doors of the medical center.

* * *

Confusion or concrit? Let me know.

Also, if there are any X-Men characters from the movies or the comics that you'd like to see in the third chapters, just send me a suggestion, and I'll see what I can do.


	3. Day Three

**A/N:** At long last, we have our conclusion. Enjoy!

* * *

The door swung open, colliding forcefully and audibly with the wall. With his sensitive hearing, Hank could perceive the sound all the way from his office in the back.

"Dr. McCoy!" The expected shout rang out into the air.

Hank sighed. It was Saturday afternoon, and he wasn't surprised that the increase in the students' spare time resulted in more injuries. He had always known that teenagers were accident-prone, but the manner in which some of these injuries were obtained was sometimes ridiculous.

Just this morning he'd seen David Alleyne after he fallen while climbing on the roof, and a very guilty-looking Rahne Sinclair had escorted Alex Summers, Scott's younger brother, to the medical bay. Nineteen-year-old Alex had been suffering from what appeared to be a mild dog bite, but Hank remained unsure of how exactly the mishap had occurred: the chances of stumbling across an angry dog were significantly lessened considering they were at a boarding school.

With a sigh, Hank proceeded out into the main area to find two teenage girls waiting for him: one brunette and the other blonde. Both were casually pretty, but the blonde was marred with raw and bleeding lesions on her upper leg.

"Oh, hey!" The blonde said, her voice very chipper in spite of the damage to her leg. "You must be Dr. McCoy! Jean-Paul told me about you!"

Hank didn't even want to imagine what information the bad-tempered teenager might have spread throughout the school rumor mill.

"I'm Dr. McCoy," he replied with a congenial smile. "Let's take a look at that leg, shall we? Don't stand, you can sit on the bench." A swift survey told him, despite what appeared as copious amount of blood, the scrapes were superficial. "What happened?"

"Road burn," the brunette responded, brushing a streak of her long, shiny black hair away from her eyes. She was tall in stature with lean muscles: an athlete. With her copper complexion and dark features, she looked as though she could have been of Native American descent. "I'm Danielle Moonstar, by the way, but I mostly go by 'Dani.'" She offered him a bright white smile. "And my incapacitated friend here is Sally Belvins."

"We were riding bikes, and I skidded when taking a turn down a hill too fast," Sally supplied blithely. "But Dani knew what to do right away."

Dani shrugged playfully. "What can I say? I've got the smarts."

"Oh, wow." Sally ran her hand across Hank's, not catching his quizzical expression. She blinked at him with wide cornflower blue eyes. "Your fur is nice. It's really soft, like a plush toy. Il ike it."

Hank was at loss for several seconds, but Dani caught his eye and gave him a small smile and shrug. Clearly, she meant to demonstrate that Sally's remark wasn't some inside joke: the blonde girl was sincere.

"Thank you," he managed eventually.

Hank scarcely had the time to clean Sally's scratches and apply an antibiotic before the door opened and a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, limped inside, heavily supported by a man about the same age. She was typically pretty, with dark hair, and he possessed angelic features and while feathery wings protruded from his back.

"Hey," the young man greeted him with a relieved smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd be here on a Saturday, but I'm glad to see you." He helped the young woman to a bench near Sally's.

Extracting a roll of gauze from the pocket of his coat, Hank quickly wound it around Sally's leg and told Dani to hold it in place before crossing over to the newcomers. "I'm Dr. Hank McCoy. May I help?"

"It's my ankle," the young woman said. She indicated the lithe appendage. "We were playing basketball, and I stumbled." She offered a good-natured smile. "It hurts something fierce, but I'm really hoping it's not broken."

Hank swiftly assessed the extent of the ankle's damage. "Only a sprain," he told her with a smile. "Don't worry, you'll be fine in a few days. I would suggest wrapping your ankle when you'll be standing and walking about, but you'll have to refrain from serious physical activity for several days. I'll get some ice- "

"I can get it," the young blonde man offered. He offered Hank an amiable smile. "I'm Warren Worthington, and that's Betsey Braddock."

Hank had just shaken Warren's hand when the door burst open again. This time, a petite teenage girl edged into the room, supporting another groaning teenager who was wearing a bandanna wrapped around his forehead. Hank leapt to aid her in transferring the teen to a bed.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly. She pushed the light brown bangs of her pixie haircut away from her forehead. "You're Dr. McCoy, right? I'm Kitty Pryde." She pointed to the teenage boy. "He's Mark Sheppard, a new student. We were playing capture the flag- " she motioned to the red bandanna " -and when he was chasing me, but when I phased through the garden wall, he forgot to stop in time."

"I'll get two ice packs," Warren decided, turning to retrieve the cold compresses.

"Thank you. Check the freezer in the back room." Hank removed the bandanna, which had apparently been used as an impromptu bandage, to reveal a large graze on Mark's forehead that was trickling blood. Head wounds bled easily, Hank knew, and a quick check told him that Mark wouldn't be needing stitches.

"Here, hold this to clot the blood." Hank handed Mark a gauze pad; the boy murmured his thanks. Withdrawing a penlight from the pocket of his white medical coat, Hank quickly checked the youth's pupils: they constricted when they focused on the light. Good, no concussion.

Warren arrived with the ice packs, handing one to Mark.

"Use it to prevent swelling," Hank instructed. Cursory inspection complete, he concluded that Mark was in no immediate danger. "Sit here for a few minutes, Mister Sheppard- Miss Pryde, please stay with him, and let me know if there are any changes in his condition. I'll be back as soon as I finish treating Miss Belvins."

Fresh gauze was applied to Sally's leg, taped in place, then she was on her way, with Dani at her side.

Despite the earlier lack of symptoms, Hank returned to ascertain that Mark was still conscious and not experiencing double vision: the latter was fine on both accounts. His worries assuaged, he was able to get back to Betsey, who was holding the ice pack against her ankle, with Warren sitting beside.

"I apologize for the delay, Miss Braddock, but unfortunately, many of the other students habitually manage to bring harm to themselves." Hank began winding an elastic Ace bandage along her ankle, starting at the arch of her foot and working upwards.

"Please, call me Betsy," the young woman said. "My twin brother gave me the nickname in my childhood, and it's never died, so I might as well continue to use it."

Her lips had hardly finished moving when more people careened into the room: two men, in their early twenties at most, supporting another man between them.

"Oh, Sam." Warren sighed.

"All right, so it was my fault this time. I admit it, I should have been more careful." The blonde man, Sam, shrugged. "Don't worry, you don't have to get up," he told Hank, as he and his companion unceremoniously dumped the unconscious man onto the bed to the left of where Mark and Kitty sat. "Logan has instant regeneration- he's already fully healed. I hit him awfully hard, though, so, um, he may be out of it for a while."

Ah. Logan. Hank had only met him once before, and he hadn't instantly recognized him. While Logan was definitely more than a little rough around the edges, Hank knew the man's heart was in the right place.

"He's heavy," said the other man, who was vaguely Spanish in appearance. His tone wasn't supercilious, but his words were laced with the underlying note of unconcern and self-assurance prevalent to those who were descended from a long line of affluence. He frowned as he rubbed his muscles. "I guess they weren't kidding about the adamantium skeleton part."

"You know what?" Sam said hopefully to Hank. "I crashed into him full force, so there's a chance he may not remember either me or Roberto accidentally knocking him out. Could you please not mention that we were here?"

Betsy rolled her eyes. "Nice one, Guthrie. What did you do, shoot out of the sky and slam Logan into the ground like a railroad spike?"

This theory was confirmed when Sam cast a wary glance towards Logan's unconscious form. "It was an accident, but if Logan doesn't remember it, then it won't hurt him. And then he won't hurt us. Later."

Sam and Roberto retreated out the door, but not five seconds afterwards, a similar duo emerged from the hall: another blonde and another descendant of wealth and Spanish lineage.

However, this time, both were teenagers. One was blonde with a slight build, and the other held a suave handsomeness, though the roguish glint in his eyes combined with his cocky smirk brought an air of arrogance about him.

"It wouldn't kill you to admit you're in the wrong- " the blonde was saying angrily, but he was cut off.

"Don't blame me for your own shortcomings." The tone was sneering, reeking of both entitlement and condescension. His disdain was undisguised, not for lack of self- control, but rather insolence. The stereotype of the haughty rich, he was completely unconcerned about his brazenly ungracious demeanor. Hank wouldn't have been surprised to find that this young man thought himself too superior to bother with basic courtesy.

"Gentlemen, this is a designated area of rest and recovery, not a place for vociferous altercations," Hank informed them coolly. "If neither of you have any medical business here, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The blonde teen seemed to make a visible effort to calm himself. "I'm sorry about that entrance. I can understand that it probably isn't the best first impression. But I actually do have a legitimate reason for being here." He held up his right hand- three of his fingers were red and dripping blood. "Someone slammed my hand in the door of his new Jaguar." He aimed a poisonous look his compatriot's direction.

Hank walked forward to examine the injured hand. "And you would be . . .?"

"Doug Ramsey," the blonde responded promptly.

"_I_ am Manuel de la Rocha." The name was delivered in a prideful manner that suggested he expected the others in the room to bow down in front of him. "Don't listen to what Doug tells you- I'm not to be blamed for his own shortcomings. If he's too incompetent to open and shut the door of a car, then I fail to see how it's my fault. His accusations of me being the cause of his problems is just compensation: he knows his parents would never be able to afford to buy him an expensive luxury car like my Jag."

Apparently, Manuel's comment struck a nerve. "You're an asshole!" Doug snapped.

"Right on the money with that one," Betsy muttered.

"Mmm-hmm," Warren agreed.

Hank set his jaw and gave both boys a sharp look as he cleaned the blood from Doug's fingers. "Gentlemen, I will not have this sort behavior. Mister de la Rocha, if you cannot conduct yourself in a civil manner, then take your confrontations outside the medical center. Mister Ramsey, I would ask that you refrain from using profanity while here as well.

Doug nodded, chagrined, but Manuel dismissed Hank's words with a careless wave of his hand.

"I don't see why Doug's oafishness should reflect on me. He's the one who should be apologizing for making me waste my time taking him to get medical help and waste my breath arguing with him about the nature of his injury."

"If you don't want to be here, then do all of us a favor and leave." Betsy's tone was frigid.

Manuel ignored her and turned to where Mark Sheppard was sitting with Kitty Pryde. "Mark, you're ethnically Hawaiian, aren't you? That means you surf, and I expect that surfers are constantly injured due to their recklessness. A few crushed fingers wouldn't be a big deal to you. Tell Doug he needs to stop whining."

Hank, whilst swiping a disinfectant over Doug's digits, silently shook his head in dismay at the ignorance of Manuel's remark.

Mark sputtered in outrage. "First of all, I'm not 'ethnically Hawaiian,' as you so patronizingly referred to it. My family is from Hawaii, but I'm 'ethnically' Japanese. Second of all, I do enjoy surfing, but general stereotyping is not cool."

"Whatever," Manuel said, utterly blasé. "I'm bored. And I don't care to listen to your complaints."

"Doug's right. You _are_ an asshole," Mark muttered under his breath.

Hank was fairly certain that due to his enhanced hearing, he was the only one who heard Mark.

"Out of morbid curiosity, why are you working so hard to convince Doug that he's the one at fault?" Warren inquired.

Manuel cavalierly shrugged. "Breaking a person's will and replacing their beliefs with my own is a systematic process I use to change others' opinions that I don't agree with. I might as well practice."

The rest of them absorbed this cold-blooded statement in silence.

"I'm going to go find Jean-Paul," Manuel announced, and he exited the room.

"Good," Betsy said as the door swung shut behind Manuel. "He and Jean-Paul are both such jackasses. They deserve each other."

"Jean-Paul's not that bad," Mark replied reasonably. "Just extremely self-centered, unapproachable, and lacking in fundamental compassion."

"I think Jean-Paul is just misunderstood," Kitty jumped in. "He's troubled, everyone knows that, but they're not willing to give him a chance."

"There you go, valiantly defending Jean-Paul and denying him the responsibility of his own actions. Why do you bother? Jean-Paul's never done you any favors." Warren raised his eyebrows at Kitty, whose face turned red.

Hank's reason for not interceding in the conversation wasn't becausebandaging Doug's fingers demanded his undivided attention. The procedure of splinting fingers was simple; he could have easily performed it in his sleep.

As a newcomer, he wanted to establish a foundation of the general beliefs of the student body. His reasons were mainly because widely shared opinions within the student presented fresh teaching opportunities to develop those convictions, but also on the chance that such beliefs could also be reflected by the teaching staff.

Additionally, in order to orient himself with his new surroundings, Hank needed to learn the mannerisms of the student body at large, acquire knowledge of the standard _modus operandi _by which the Xavier Institutestudents interacted with their environment.

Gleanings from the conversation revealed that Jean-Paul Martin wasn't on good terms with most of the other student thanks to his standoffish demeanor, and from what Scott had told Hank two days prior, the teachers weren't overly fond of Jean-Paul, either.

"If Jean-Paul wants to be seen as a better person, then he shouldn't just stand by and watch when Manuel acts like a jackass." Betsy was unmoved by Kitty's earnestness. "Jean-Paul should do something to stop it."

"You can't blame J.P. for Manuel's actions," Mark argued.

"Mark's right," Kitty readily concurred. "Jean-Paul is just loyal to his friend. And Jean-Paul never behaves like Manuel does. It's obvious that Jean-Paul doesn't want to be a snobby elitist like Manuel, but he doesn't want to abandon his friend for different people."

Judging by her age, Hank suspected that Kitty's reason for ardently explaining away another teenager's faults was because she enamored with the latter. Kitty's willingness to excuse Jean-Paul's attitude and fabricate new context for his actions were obvious signs of an infatuation with him.

Hank presumed the attraction was founded in Jean-Paul's good looks; even considering the stereotypical "good girl falls for rebel" magnetism, Jean-Paul's callous disposition would most likely discourage the most passionate female admirers.

After finishing Doug's finger splints, Hank sent him on his way, and then dismissed Mark after a final once-over for signs of internal brain injury. Hank paused briefly to check on Logan, but he remained unconscious, though he appeared to be otherwise undamaged. Betsy's ankle wrapping finally received the last few required adjustments, and she was just departing with Warren when Scott entered.

"Having a good time, Hank?" He asked jocularly.

"Wonderful," Hank responded dryly. "I had the pleasure of meeting Mister de la Rocha today.

"My favorite junior sociopath, right after Rogue." Scott sighed, holding up a sheaf of papers. "I was just reading his essay on _To Kill A Mockingbird_. Needless to say, Manuel missed the entire point of the book."

"Did the rest of the class do much better?" Hank asked, amused.

"Not really, no." Scott frowned. "Is that Logan? Why is he unconscious?"

"An incident with a Mister Guthrie," Hank replied.

It was telling that Scott instantly accepted this as an explanation. "Have you got any medicine for a headache, Hank? I gave Jean my bottle of aspirin before she left, just in case she became ill when traveling with Charles on his sabbatical."

"First cabinet on the right," Hank responded absently. He was dividing his attention between talking to his friend and updating the medical files; he was currently adding a note about Mark Sheppard's head injury.

Scott located a plastic container of Aleve. "Thanks. I really need this stuff whenever I'm grading papers for my ninth grade English class. My God, from looking at their paragraphs, you'd think I hadn't just spent the past month teaching them about this book."

Hank arched an eyebrow. "Are the essays legitimately that abysmal?"

"My red pen will run dry within the first hour of grading these things," Scott answered, with a hint of amusement.

"Sounds onerous struggle, similar to the type I experienced today." Hank grimaced at the memory of treating the many maladies that could have been prevented had the students been more careful. Then a thought occurred to him. "Actually, that gives me an idea . . . "

* * *

Hank and Scott sat at the round table located at the front of the medical bay, the surface before them loaded with student essays and beer.

" . . . and whenever we find a misspelling or grammatical error, we take a sip of beer," Hank finished explaining.

"We'll have alcohol poisoning in fifteen minutes," Scott pointed out. "Here, take these." He handed Hank a stack of essays. "I know each student's style, and I can probably predict the content of their essay. I'll tell you what individual cliché to look for, and when you find them, then you can drink."

Hank flipped through the papers. "Saint-John Allerdyce?"

"Drink whenever he begins using purple prose."

"Is he a frequent offender?" Hank asked.

"Worse than Laurell K. Hamilton."

Hank winced. "That's harsh. Bobby Drake?"

Scott was leafing through his own collection of papers. "Whenever he confuses his homonyms, you know, 'affect' with 'effect' and 'beet' and 'beat.' Stuff like that." He grimaced. "I'll be able to take a sip whenever Manuel interrupts his essay to extol the joys of a capitalistic society, whenever Amara Aquilla thinly disguises a personal diatribe as a message of the book, and whenever Rogue insists that a concrete aspect of the story has symbolic meaning."

Hank was impressed that Scott was so familiar with his students' writing methods. "Kitty Pryde?"

"Malapropisms."

"Piotr Rasputin?"

"Whenever he expresses his ideas more articulately than his classmates, who have been speaking English all of their lives while he's still learning it as his second language."

A growl emitted from behind them and they both turning to find Logan sitting up and rubbing his head.

"Those damn kids," he muttered. He noticed Scott and Hank and briefly scowled at them, but his dark expression lightened when he noticed the alcohol. "Hey, beer."

"If you want some, you have to grade freshmen English essays," Scott cautioned.

Logan scoffed and walked over to the table. "I may be just a combat teacher, but grading papers can't be that hard." He sat down and pulled the nearest essay towards him.

"Whose do you have?" Scott asked offhandedly.

"Jean-Paul Martin. That weird, pretty kid, then." Logan twisted the cap off a beer bottle. "Hey, it's German beer. Good stuff."

"Jean-Paul's should be easy. Just take a sip of beer whenever he mentions 'death' or any variant thereof," Scott told him.

"Hmph." Logan scanned the essay. "Let's start off with a toast." He raised his glass.

"An excellent suggestion." Hank was already paging through Bobby's essay. "I predict we'll sorely need it." He raised his bottle. "To health."

"To students one day taking the time to make an effort in their writing," Scott said.

"To beer," Logan added.

The three beleaguered teachers clinked bottles and drank deeply.

* * *

**A/N:** And that concludes this story. Only took me about a year. Feedback is awesome.

For more about this crowd, check out my story "What Could Go Wrong?" and its sequel "Kids These Days." Jean-Paul and Bobby's friendship is detailed in "Guilt Trips" and "Speechless".

**Credit to:**

**Prototron MJ Tornada**, for suggesting Logan should appear in this chapter;

**Callie Summers**, for suggesting Sam be involved in an accident;

**Iron Savior**, for suggesting I use Dani Moonstar and one of the New X-Men (Mark Sheppard);

and **CrossoverxToxThexDarkxSide**, for suggesting a new kid (Mark Sheppard) get hurt while following Kitty into a wall.

Thanks for the help! :)

And **davis395**:

The feud between Emma and Storm is basically that Emma treats nearly everyone around her as though she's better than them. In Chapter Two, not only did she interrupt a quiet moment between two good friends, but she was also insincere in her apology, while putting the moves on Hank though Rogue's body (Creepy). She was sort of just screwing with his head just for the hell of it right in front of Ororo, but then Emma also treated Ororo like some sort of servant.

Yeah. Emma's awesome, in her own cold-blooded way, but she's not really there to make friends.

Peace, everybody!


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